


Playground

by Osidiano



Category: Yu-Gi-Oh!
Genre: Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Making Out, Mental Instability, Mild Gore, Obsessive Behavior, POV First Person, Possessive Behavior, References to Gozaburo's A+ Parenting, Sibling Incest, Songfic, Weird Descriptive Nonsense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-01-02
Updated: 2003-01-02
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:20:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4461605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Osidiano/pseuds/Osidiano
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Songfic to Marcy Playground's 'I Smell Sex and Candy,' sans full lyrics.</p><p>Clearly I wrote this after seeing Seto hallucinate his brother melting like wax in the anime.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playground

**Author's Note:**

> Please keep in mind that this is really old, and I didn't rewrite or edit it before putting it up here. You get it in all its 'teenage!Sid' glory. You're welcome.

I was probably crazy, a schizophrenic genius with nothing else to do. That’s pretty sad, and I remembered thinking that as I watched it drip, drag and pull itself down his skin like nothing else in the room was quite alive. He was smiling, almost laughing with his hands palm up to the sky, stretched above his thrown back head. That head lolled to one side as though I’d long since snapped his neck, and he was watching me with a pale grey-blue eye under too much ragged black hair. He was standing by my chair, at my desk, in my study, in my house, and I don’t know why I didn’t find it strange to see him there. It should have been odd, I thought, to see him there after everything was said and done. That horrible collar of mine with the metal shackles attaching it to the floor was out on the desk. I still wore that thing sometimes when I really needed to get something done for work and I didn’t have any time for sleep. I wore it then, and it gave me a numbingly surreal feeling to see him with it, the chain coiled lovingly as if it wanted nothing more than to be around his neck, wanted to keep him trapped to that desk for an eternity. His breathing was rough, heavy and panting when he eyed me again, when the cold coffee cup fell from my hands to shatter on the dark carpet.

His hands fell from the sky to the surface of the desk, head rolled forward on that beautifully broken neck and fingers caught in the chain like ecstasy. He was biting through the tip of his tongue, blood welling beneath his teeth as I walked over and reached out for him. He tore apart in my hands, melted away and only partially reformed where he was standing across from me. Hot wax, dripping liquid down my hands, spattered over the carpet and onto the papers strewn along the desktop. There was something wrong with it all, like he wasn’t supposed to be dying like this, and again my hands passed through him, caught for a moment on cloth before that too gave way. It did not occur to me then — at that precise and unmeasured moment — that he wasn’t really there so he couldn’t really leave. But it was sliding along my skin and down his person, flesh-tone demons pulling free from my mind and clinging to his body where they touched, hungry and devouring.

He pulled himself up, sat down on the edge of the desk, and when he realized that his clothes were missing — that they were suddenly palpable but still nothing more than hot wax in my hands — he smiled. I was getting redundant by that point, what with my gentle touches and the dripping tissue from bone creating an acid for my psyche, cheap party drugs for my soul. He pulled me forward by my jacket, crawled up my body with the leverage it gave him. Another smile, this one almost against my mouth, and I thought that I would fall to my knees. Why was he doing this? I don’t know, but the smell — like match-sulfur and bubblegum — was oddly erotic, something too Freudian for me to really care to identify. His lips touched mine, and I felt the heat seeping down the lower half of my face from that point. It felt like blood on morphine, not quite there but burning through layers of narcotics and dermis anyway, some kind of hazed euphoria that I was slow to distinguish. He started talking to me then, mouth continually brushing against my own with every movement, and he said:

_(I smell sex and candy here)_

“Do you ever ask. . .? Or do you always just take what you want?” I brought my hands up again, slick and sliding along his jaw; the white bone only just visible through the shallow coating of blood. It dribbled out his mouth from his tongue, the red catching on my cheek in a solid streak where he licked me, and I shuddered. I could feel it there, that sweet psychosis, vandal-born and meth-bred: the half-formed desire bubbling up through the last remnants of logic and sanity, and I remembered pushing him down — remembered feeling my hands sink into his chest, the skin barely more resistant than burning oils — as he writhed beneath me. But he wanted it, wanted me like I wanted him right now, and I could tell from the way he watched me with lidded eyes, from the way his teeth buried themselves in the remaining stretch of his lower lip. He wanted it more than anything.

I opened my mouth to tell him that I didn’t need this; didn’t really want something so vile and instinctual that I would need no mind to continue through these simple phases. But he . . . he had other plans, it seemed. The chain from the collar — so damn cold and heavy — slipped along the back of my neck, both ends wrapped around his crumbling hands. He pulled me forward again, this time down and only slightly above him, leaving wet trails of dripping flesh where he touched me. His tongue found its way into my mouth, the sensation strangely filling and almost too bizarre for enjoyment; saltwater taffy and blood-copper, thick and not quite sticky as it slid down my throat, leaving me with a heavy taste of carnauba leaves afterward. The action — I couldn’t really call it a 'kiss' — was broken slowly, as though he was savoring it, memorizing the feeling of our lips together.

_(This surely is a dream)_

“This. . .” he paused, head angling down for him to gently nip at the front of my neck. “This is exactly what you want, isn’t it? Compliant, easy, begging for more. . . Well, are you excited yet?”

_(Yeah this surely is a dream)_

I tried to tell him no, tried again in vain to tell myself that I wasn’t doing this. But it was almost as though someone else was controlling me, was clawing their way down his chest and stomach. Like it was someone else — someone I wanted so desperately to be right now — bringing their mouth down down down along his body, was causing his breathing to hitch and go ragged; shallow gasps and moans escaping him as he arced up under the assault. His voice was nearly godlike; the way he choked out my name around the blood and hot wax, around the collapse of his throat, was an exotic arousal in and of itself. He pulled my work shirt open, ran his too warm hands down my chest and left the skin there. We didn’t notice at the time.

He was dying as we kissed, his body slipping away and into mine with every touch. We couldn’t pull away from each other, didn’t really want to so it seemed pointless. All I wanted was him. And that desire, singled out for interrogation like that, was so pragmatically out of place; locked here in my study with the door wide open, and me with fifteen minutes until I had to be back at the office downtown. I remembered something about getting to a meeting this afternoon, but the thought was too vague. I didn’t want to leave this, didn’t want to leave him. His words came back to me, and I smiled slowly, eyes flicking to his face when I asked, “Compliant, huh? Would you really do anything for me?”

“Isn’t that. . .all part of the game. . .?” he spoke between heavy breaths, words slightly slurred and garbled. It was as though he was fading fast from me, but no matter what, I knew that he would have to be with me forever. He wasn’t really here so he couldn’t really ever leave. That was comforting to know; to know that every time I felt crazy he might just be there with his dead wax and blue eyes, smiling and reaching out for me. He’d be right here waiting for me, loving me through red violence and white noise, through half-forgotten dreams and codeine-laced mornings. It was very comforting, actually. Dropping my voice to a whisper, I told him:

_(I smell sex and candy here)_

“I need you, I want you: I can’t stand not having you. I never want anyone else to touch you.” He seemed surprised by the sudden confession, but it was only for a second and then he released me, collar and chain falling to the floor with a rattling thud. I jerked away, pulled myself back towards the window, just watching him slip off the desk and stand — naked and laughing — before me. We both knew it was only a matter of time until I was coming after him again, until this dull reprieve met with a violent end. It was my turn to laugh. I never lost, and I always got what I wanted, but in a way, I didn’t want to let him win me this easily. Not here and not like this; not lost in some fabricated reality created from my own sick and twisted mind. No. I wanted more than this dream.

“Then what are you waiting for? Take me, make me yours. . .isn’t that what you really want? To break my body and use me up before you toss me aside? C’mon, _big brother_ , prove that you’ve always loved yourself more than me.” I didn’t know anymore if he was real; a part of me was screaming that he wasn’t and never would be, but I had to make sure that this was just me being crazy again. That I was just hallucinating again. I was touching him again before I realized that the pause was over, before I’d bothered to catch my breath. My hands once more sought refuge within his skin, and he tugged the belt at my waist from its place and dropped it to the floor. I should have ended it then, should have stopped myself from continuing, but I didn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him to leave.

_(This surely is a dream)_

I’d been left with no choice and I didn’t even mind. All I could think about was how innocently confused he looked when my hands touched his face — gently, lovingly — and when my fingers crawled through the hot wax and caught in that thick tangle of black hair. Briefly, the time it took me to lower my mouth over the remains of his, I wondered if he’d still love me when I woke up. I kept my eyes open, and I watched him scream in silent tones as my nails dug into the remains of his skull. My teeth connected on the other side of his tongue; I swallowed him and went back for more. He left my clothes wet with blood and wax and the humors of his soul, and in the moment — that one, beautiful and untainted moment — I feared no consequences for my actions.

_(Yeah, this must be my dream)_


End file.
